


Always By My Side

by disreputabledog



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Community: Meme of Interest, Daemon Touching, Episode Remix, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8045896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disreputabledog/pseuds/disreputabledog
Summary: Basically the show, except they have dæmons.





	Always By My Side

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [prompt](http://meme-of-interest.dreamwidth.org/1507.html?thread=327651#cmt327651) at the POI kinkmeme:
> 
> Tell me about Finch and Reese's daemons.  
> Tell me about the first time they touch the other's.

The CIA isn’t kind to dæmons. They have a...process.

John thought he was used to unkindness by then. It wasn’t like his previous jobs were easy, after all. But he was unprepared for the lengths to which the Company would go to ensure mission success, shredding every familiar tenet of the human–dæmon relationship to further their goals. Beyond the extensive training in covert tactics, spycraft, combat, concealment and intelligence gathering, he and his dæmon were subjected to grueling experiments in distance reconnaissance. He learned to push through the sickening sensation of having part of his soul dragged too far away from him, learned to endure countless strangers’ hands upon his dæmon. If the higher-ups could have severed them entirely without killing them both, they surely would have. He’d heard rumors in his time, about certain black sites, certain classified operations.

Ultimately, they could be separated without compromising their fighting efficacy and his dæmon could pass for a normal dog. He had to admit it was handy to have opponents assume his dæmon was something small, hiding timidly in a pocket, only to be borne to the ground by a black and tan streak lunging out of the shadows.

The strain these measures put on agents gives them an inevitable expiration date, of course, beyond the usual risks of death and capture. It’s what had John almost convinced to eliminate Kara, that night in Ordos. He had always been unsettled by Kara’s polecat Alvaros—and knew better than to ever say so—and it wasn’t hard to imagine that something had shifted just enough to compromise them. But his own dæmon had hesitated at the last moment, and the small inaction saved their lives, if not John’s skin.

After all that, he and Bear like to stay as close as possible. Bear paces at John’s side, lies at his feet, sleeps in his bed when he has one, and John invariably has a hand buried in Bear’s fur for comfort every chance he gets.

* * *

John knows why he was given that water cup in the police station and what Carter plans to do with it, and he lets her take it anyway. It goes against his training and he broods about it later when he sees his haggard face on the news. Curious to see what she’d do about it, maybe, or looking for a more interesting way to die. Her badger dæmon had shuffled into the room ahead of her and sniffed at them and Bear had looked more engaged in their surroundings than he had in weeks, months. Living in the shadows for so long, the life slowly bleeding out of him one bottle at a time, John thinks maybe he just wanted to be seen for a change.

When the man with the crow who calls himself Finch and doesn't seem to exist throws Jessica in his face and offers him a job, it turns out being seen is exhausting.

* * *

 Finch’s dæmon is usually perched on his shoulder or one of his monitors, black eyes gazing at John even when Finch seems absorbed in his work. The scrutiny makes him uncomfortable at first but soon slides into a part of his new routine. John doesn’t know the crow’s name, yet another of Finch’s closely guarded secrets, but he greets her with a respectful nod each time he enters the library.

* * *

Fusco’s Abyssinian can’t stand Bear, and makes her opinion very clear, fluffing up and hissing from Fusco’s shoulders.

“Jesus, can you quit it with the looming?”

“Someone as jumpy as you usually has something to hide. I wonder what that could be, Lionel?” John is casually leaning against the detective’s car and Bear wears his most attentive expression. He probably takes too much pleasure in rattling the poor man, but he has to make his own entertainment in his line of work and Finch is off on one of his mysterious errands.

“A man your size got no business sneaking up on people like that,” grumbles Fusco, attempting to soothe the cat’s tawny fur. “Let me guess, you need another favor?”

“Lionel, you’re too kind,” John says, and passes over a folded slip of paper with a name on it. “Get me everything you have on this guy. I’ll call for it later.”

“I have a real job, you know,” Fusco says, but takes the paper.

* * *

Charlie Burton’s dæmon is a thin coyote. John’s not biased; coyotes are smart, adaptive and resourceful, good traits in a high school teacher. She doesn’t react much when Charlie gets shot, and frankly neither does Charlie. It ought to tell John something, but he’s too busy looking for an escape route and a way to get back in touch with Finch to pay enough mind to it. They’ve only been working together for a few weeks but he already feels the lack of Finch’s voice in his ear like an itch across his shoulders.

So he’s blindsided when the growling coyote corners Bear on the ferry and Charlie— _Elias_ pulls his own gun on him. The coyote holds Bear at bay near the normal distance limit and John puts on signs of the distress it should be causing him.

“I know how capable you are at getting out of difficult situations,” Elias says, and his expression says he might guess there’s more to it than that. But he leaves it be, a polite fiction between gentlemen.

* * *

Certain professions tend to have an abundance of particular dæmons. For cops it’s working dogs. Hard to say whether that’s a matter of natural aptitude or social reinforcement, but it’s common enough that anyone with an atypical dæmon inevitably gets some ribbing at the academy. Nobody bats an eye at Bear when John flashes Detective Stills’ badge.

After the fourth or fifth such encounter, John notices Bear’s ears lying flat and asks him what’s wrong once they’re alone again.

“I’m a herding dog,” Bear says indignantly.

John kneels to stroke Bear’s muzzle. “I know, and you know, but we’d rather nobody else looks too closely, right?”

“I guess,” and Bear shoves his cold nose under John’s collar.

* * *

 Leila’s dæmon flits between the half dozen animals the baby has encountered in her short life. Squirrel and pigeon feature heavily, this being New York. John counts himself lucky that cockroaches aren’t on that list. She’s very taken with Bear and demands to ride him, blissfully unaware of customs to the contrary. Babies barely count, anyway. If Finch notices John’s face softening once Leila is perched on Bear’s back with fistfuls of fur gripped in her chubby little hands, he doesn’t comment.

Later, Bear huddles around dæmon and child in the refrigerated truck. John breaks when Leila’s daemon, now a puppy with familiar markings, hasn’t moved for a full minute.

* * *

 “Why didn’t you tell us we had so many books?”

Finch’s dæmon speaks to John for the first time when her other half is drugged out of his mind. Given the circumstances he shouldn’t be so surprised, but he fumbles the blanket and water he’s carrying. Finch laughs at him, his whole face bright. John is frozen, unable to move, but Bear paces and whines. The crow spirals in wobbly circles around Finch, who turns in place to watch her, making himself dizzy after a few moments. His dæmon lands on his head and chirps hoarsely while Finch giggles.

John recovers himself, and the water, which he hands to Finch. “It’ll be out of your system in a few hours. But you should really drink this, so you don’t get dehydrated.”

“You’re leaving?” It’s the dæmon again. Bear actually _barks_ this time.

“We’ll, uh, stick around, keep an eye on you, but you should really get some sleep.”

“You don’t wanna talk?” Finch leans in and stage whispers, “Gregorea likes you, you know. C’mon, ask us anything.”

The name is a nugget of information John has longed to discover, but he can’t let himself feel elated about it with Finch in this compromised state. “You might regret it in the morning. You’re a very private person, remember?” In reply, Gregorea makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough, fluffs her feathers, and settles down on Finch’s head. John takes that as his cue to leave. “Goodnight, Harold.”

Bear presses close against his leg as they turn away. John thinks he can hear Finch whistling softly as he turns the corner. He retrieves another blanket from the back room and finds them a corner to curl up in out of Finch’s line of sight but within earshot. Hopefully Finch will forget he’s even there.

“Bespectacled man will be all right,” Bear reassures him, and John smiles at the nickname. As he fondles Bear’s ears, a part of him wishes he had properly earned this startling favor from Harold, instead of merely being in the right place at the wrong time. There are so many things he wants to know.

* * *

After Root, after he has Harold back, John leaves Bear at the library when he goes into the field. Harold raises an eyebrow. “If anyone ever messes with you, he’ll eat ‘em,” John tells him.

“I don’t doubt it,” Harold replies, in a voice that says that he might.

John tells himself it’s only natural to take steps to protect his boss after such an ordeal, and this is how he can contribute. Harold protects their partnership with his mind; John protects it with his body. He puts on the collar that Bear wears when he’s undercover, shows Harold where the matching leash is, tells him to take Bear with him if he needs to go out.

“I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Sofia Campos is a double helping of trouble and John has his hands full keeping up with her. He worries about Harold in the back of his mind. When Harold can’t meet him to look after Sofia, John doesn’t need him to elaborate. Harold may not need to talk about it (or may not want to talk about it with him) but that doesn’t mean he’s unaffected.

“I’ve been lost for so long,” Sofia says. Her peregrine falcon dæmon rubs his face against her cheek.

“I’ve spent some time feeling lost,” John tells her. He remembers coming unmoored and drifting, so many times in his life, fumbling his way back to some dim beacon of a better future.

“What changed?”

“Someone found me, told me I needed a purpose.” The first time he’s felt that bright thread of belonging since...since Jessica. Well, shit.

Her eyes are sad but her smile is soft, hopeful. “Sounds like a good friend.”

“He is.” He says it coolly, like it means what it says on the tin, but inside he’s shaking. Along with the realization that his feelings for Finch are not strictly friendly and haven’t been for some time, an indescribable sensation blooms in his chest. John misses a step and breathes through it. He thinks he hears a gasp in his ear—Finch must still be on the line, but he dismisses it. He hasn’t said anything Finch doesn’t already know and the rest will have to wait.

John leaves Sofia with Fusco and plays hero with Carter. The usually welcome distraction of knocking out a bunch of guys with more muscle than sense doesn’t work this time, and Carter is unimpressed by his showing off. He didn’t know a badger was even capable of rolling its eyes. Turns out they’re in the wrong place, but with Finch’s directions they get back to Sofia in time to avert the danger for good.

When he returns to the library, Bear greets him enthusiastically. Finch is putting the information they have on Root on a board. John thought he’d hidden his investigation well enough but apparently not. Gently, he says, “It’s time we went for that beer.” He hasn’t decided whether to tell Harold what he’s discovered about himself, but in any case, he needs to help Harold ease back into the world.

Finch’s hands flutter and Gregorea paces on the back of the chair. “I need to wrap things up here.”

John takes a risk and touches Harold’s hand. Harold turns his face up, looking surprised. “Things here can wait.”

“Mr. Reese, I…” Harold wets his lips and pauses a moment. John waits. “I have something to confess. It was extremely unprofessional and rude of me and I can understand if you no longer wish to work with me…”

“Harold?” he prompts.

“Earlier today, your dæmon, Bear, he...suddenly put his head in my lap and I, I stroked him.” Harold looks mortified, cheeks flushed. John stares, first at Harold and then at Bear, who only gives him a doggy grin like the floor hasn’t just dropped out from beneath John’s feet. “Of course, I mean, I’m in no way attempting to shift the blame to you, I take full responsibility—”

John mentally rewinds his day, thinks back to the mysterious feeling that made him stumble, that was…? “But it didn’t hurt,” he says wonderingly. Bear, if possible, looks smug. Deliberately, first looking at John to make sure he’s paying attention, Bear walks over to Harold and presses his nose into his palm.

It still doesn’t hurt. It feels _wonderful_. He grins helplessly at Harold. So this is what it’s supposed to be like, when someone good and true touches that part of you.

Harold still hasn’t moved, mouth hanging slightly open in shock as he looks between Bear and John. John takes his other hand and places it on Bear’s head, deep in the soft fur. The dog wags his tail and John shivers all over.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says. “John.”

“Let me have this,” John blurts. “Just for a moment, I know you don’t—”

Gregorea makes a rattling sound deep in her throat. When he looks at her, startled, she says, “Don’t be silly. You can have anything you want from us.” Harold stiffens and peers around at her. “What. It’s true,” she says, and fluffs her feathers.

Harold sinks into his chair with a stunned expression, his hands still on Bear, who only pushes closer. “Well, since the _crow_ ’s out of the bag,” Harold says, with a wry look at his dæmon. He strokes Bear with a will, then, smoothing the fur along the sides of his face and scratching behind his ears. John can’t breathe, his skin feels hot and a size too small, and it’s bliss. He’s never felt this exposed or this safe.

He finds himself swaying in place and turns to perch on the desk next to Harold. A small chirp announces Gregoraa’s approach and he cautiously offers his hand to her. She regards his fingers critically, then swoops to his shoulder and buffets the back of his head with her wing. He reaches up to stroke the shiny black feathers, trembling in a way he never does on difficult assignments. “Oh,” Harold says softly. They stay like that for long minutes, quietly contemplating the wonder of it, of being allowed.

“Does it have to be beer?” Harold finally asks, in a drowsy sort of tone, and John smiles because everything is going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more to write in this 'verse but I haven't decided whether I'll add chapters to this one or do it as a series. I have so many dæmon headcanons you guys.
> 
> (My first time through the show I realized that in Bear John had basically gotten a canine version of himself to look after Harold when he's not there. Hence this story.)
> 
> (I wanted to name Harold's dæmon something to do with being watchful, but there was already vigilantes and Vigilance, so I went with the Greek.)


End file.
